


Emergence

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adult Stiles, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Angst, Bad Flirting, Banter, Books, Canon-Typical Violence, Closeted Character, Confessions, Confusion, Constructed Reality, Crack, Creator/Created, Creepy, Dark, Delusions, Doubt, Drama, Dreams vs. Reality, FBI Inaccuracies, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Flirting, Fourth Wall, Funny, Gallows Humor, Hallucinations, Horror, Insanity, Interrogation, Investigations, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Metafiction, Murder, Mystery, Nightmares, Paranoia, Plotty, Pygmalion Complex, Revelations, Romance, Sarcastic Stiles, Snark, Supernatural Elements, Surreal, The Author is Clearly Insane, Thriller, Unreliable Narrator, Weirdness, Werewolves, Writers, Writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a writer of horror novels whose characters start coming to life. Including a character called Derek Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emergence

* * *

 

People often laugh disbelievingly when Stiles tells them what he does for a living. Not the part about being a writer - apparently, he's nerdy enough in his horn-rimmed glasses and worn tweed jackets to be a writer - but the part about writing  _horror_. They say he's too sweet to write about gory, bloody things, that he's too gentle to harbor an inner malice, that he's too hapless to frighten anyone, even in fiction.

How little they know him. But Stiles prefers it that way. He prefers that his 'friends' remain ignorant of his nightmares, of his panic attacks, of his flashes of incomprehensible rage that lead to him regularly replacing broken dinner plates and wine-glasses. He prefers that nobody find out just how cathartic his stories are for him, that playing god with characters he can hurt with impunity is better than hurting human beings.

Stiles isn't - he isn't a  _psychopath_ , or anything like that. He's just... tormented. By thoughts and images he can't explain. He puts on a mask of normalcy when he goes out on dates arranged by an eternally optimistic Scott and an intimidatingly relentless Allison, but he paints himself as a boring intellectual with no spark or passion, and the women ultimately quit.

The dates may be more successful if they were with  _men_ , but Stiles hasn't come out of the closet, and sees no point in doing so. The casual one-night stands in the alley behind the local gay club are enough to keep him... if not satisfied, then sane. Mostly sane. Occasionally sane.

Only Stiles's dad knows he's not entirely right in the head, because he was there for Stiles's dysfunctional adolescence, so Stiles is visiting a shrink at his behest. A Dr. Morrell. But Stiles is dishonest with her, as well. Sometimes, he's more creative with her than he is with his novels, and it's something of a game, if she can spot when he's fibbing. She very rarely can. It frustrates her, and she repeatedly tries to get him to be up-front, but Stiles is a storyteller by nature. Honesty doesn't suit him, although the _appearance_ of honesty does. He's a trickster, in so many ways. A  _nogitsune_ , of the void and from the void.

That's why, when mysterious occurrences start happening in Beacon Hills - occurrences that hint at the supernatural - Stiles is inclined to think they're uncanny coincidences. Pranks gone wrong. But when they make it onto the television news cycle and into daily conversations, Stiles begins paying attention to them, to what the heck is going on.

That, and an agent from the FBI - Agent Rafael McCall, who is, incidentally, also Scott's estranged father - knocks on Stiles's door late on a Friday, asking to speak to him. A bevy of other agents follows Rafael into the house, like ducklings trailing behind a mother duck. A very pissy mother duck.

It seems as though Stiles is under suspicion, because many of the deaths in Beacon Hills are identical to the deaths in his novels.

Stiles scoffs, but sobers rapidly as he reads the reports Rafael hands to him, growing cold as photograph after photograph reveals corpses killed in very specific ways, with runes and sigils carved into their limbs, their eyes hollowed out, their bodies clawed to pieces. Stiles fights down a surge of nausea, doing his best to focus despite his racing pulse, his sweaty palms.

This -

None of this can be  _true_. It's ridiculous. Unless Stiles has ventured so deep into insanity that he's hallucinating the existence of the goddamn FBI agents hovering in his living room, studying every item in it with dubious consideration. Like maybe Stiles is using the poker leaning against his mantelpiece to burn eyeballs out of sockets. Not that it hasn't  _occurred_ to Stiles, but -

"Am I your prime suspect?" he asks, bluntly. "If I am, just say it."

Rafael looks discomfited. "Not quite. You're not even a suspect. No physical evidence has been found linking you to the murders; the only thing in common is the plot of your novels. This girl - " Rafael taps a file on the coffee table " - was killed in the same manner as the protagonist of your third book,  _Abomination_ , and traces of an unknown toxin were found in her tissues. This boy, on the other hand," Rafael picks up another file, "was mauled by a wild animal whose track-marks do not match those of any beast known to man."

"A werewolf's tracks."

"Surreal as it sounds. Of course, we all know it can't be a  _genuine_  werewolf, but perhaps it's someone imitating a werewolf. Which series of yours are the werewolves from?"

" _Alpha_. It's still ongoing, about a kid whose best friend transforms into a werewolf and kills everyone in town..."

"You can see why we're concerned. You might be an extremely accomplished serial killer, Mr. Stilinski, or there might be a fan of yours out there who is determined to copy your work."

"A copycat."

"They do say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

Stiles snorts. "I'd rather my readers were more... passive in their admiration of me. What do you suggest I do?"

"Allow us to tap your phone. Track your mail. If this 'fan' of yours is so impressed by your writing, he or she is likely to attempt contacting you, to show off, to impress you in return."

"Is that what your psychological profiler says?"

"Yes. The profiler  _also_ says that your profile is very interesting."

"Is it, now?"

Rafael regards him steadily. "Mr. Stilinski, let's not beat around the bush. Half of the reason we have to track your interactions is to ensure that you aren't instructing another accomplice out there, that you aren't calling the shots in this macabre pseudo-supernatural theater Beacon Hills has turned into."

"And if I'm innocent, I shouldn't be bothered by your interference?"

"If you're innocent, you should cooperate to the furthest extent of the law."

"I will." Stiles shrugs. "It's not like I  _want_ my novels to become true. That's just - bizarre, and upsetting, because I'm a law-abiding citizen without a violent bone in my body."

"Really?" Rafael quirks a skeptical eyebrow.

"Really. I don't have so much as a traffic violation. Or did you neglect to confirm whether or not I even have a criminal record?"

"I didn't. And you don't."

"There you go."

"Goodnight, Mr. Stilinski. I'll send you two agents tomorrow - Agents Boyd and Reyes - and they'll bug your phone and your mailbox."

"Does that include my electronic mailbox?"

"You know it does. You've done copious research into this sort of procedure for your novels, haven't you?"

"I suppose that doesn't make me any less fishy."

"I'm afraid it doesn't."

"Goodnight to you, too. Will you call me, to keep me appraised of any developments?"

"Only those that we feel could benefit from your insight."

"I am, technically, their  _author_. I wrote the fucking script. There should be nothing that wouldn't benefit from my insight."

Rafael is silent for a moment. "Touché," he says, eventually. "I'll call."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Let me clear your name, first."

"I thought I wasn't a suspect."

Rafael smiles thinly. "And I hope you stay that way." The wrinkles around his eyes crinkle, without making his smile any more honest. "This is my last case before my retirement, Mr. Stilinski. I plan to be unfailingly thorough with it."

"I'm glad such a dedicated agent is out to stop these horrible crimes."

"Is that sarcasm I detect in your tone, Mr. Stilinski?"

"Oh, no. Never. Will you be staking out my home, by the by? I could be in danger, after all."

Rafael's smile sours. "Agents Boyd and Reyes will commence parking outside your house from tomorrow evening."

"Were you planning on informing me of that, if I hadn't asked?"

"I'm sure you'd have been observant enough to notice them, Mr. Stilinski. Aren't writers meant to be observant?"

"They're rather absent-minded, actually."

Rafael huffs incredulously, gathers up his reports, and departs, taking his ducklings with him.

Stiles immediately thinks of phoning his dad's apartment, just to reassure himself with a familiar voice - but his dad's probably asleep by now, and Stiles shouldn't wake him. Not with this crazy shit.

When Stiles goes to bed, it's with strange doubts haunting his mind, and a creeping sense that he  _could_ be the killer, that he could, perhaps, be dissociating -

No.

That's -

Not that. Stiles isn't that badly fractured. He  _isn't_. Plus, he'd need certain kinds of equipment to fake supernatural deaths, and his bank account (Stiles had logged into it briefly before going to bed) shows no extraneous expenses. If Stiles isn't miraculously richer than his account balance indicates, he can't possibly have fabricated the existence of a werewolf  _and_ a kanima  _and_ a druid.

If they were real, though...

No. Not that, either. If Stiles believes that, he should just commit himself to the nearest mental institution.

Stiles shuts his eyes and goes over his remaining novels, the ones that haven't been... adapted, thus far. There's  _Jungle_ , with the werecoyote, and  _Oni_ , with the Japanese demons, and  _Possession_ , about the undead villain who possesses a teenage schoolgirl and uses her to slaughter her peers. Not to mention _Electricity_ , about the evil engineer who gets electrocuted to death by a mythical nine-tailed fox, and  _Ashen_ , about a dying man determined to extend his life by any means necessary, up to and including human sacrifice.

The list is almost endless. For once, Stiles wishes he weren't so prolific, although he has to be, to earn a steady income. None of his books have been bestsellers, although they've been minor successes. He has to write a lot if he wishes to pay the rent, and that's that. He isn't to blame for some nutcase determined to convert fantasy into fact.

Stiles is sleeping fitfully when he hears the noise.

He's awake before he's even aware of it - grabbing the knife under his pillow automatically, a knife that Rafael McCall would be very eager to have an explanation for.

It's just insurance against Stiles's frequent bouts of paranoia. It isn't sinister in the least.

But there _is_ a sinister edge to the scratches and scrapes coming from Stiles's kitchen, so Stiles crawls out of bed and tiptoes along the hallway, knife held aloft.

The night is oddly dreamlike, the darkness tinged an inky blue, and Stiles's breaths are louder than he wants them to be. His fingers ache around the hilt of the knife, he's gripping it so tight. Perhaps he _is_ dreaming. Perhaps he is the dream.

But the hulking shadow in his kitchen materializes into a very tangible shape, the instant Stiles switches on the light. Glaring and bright, Stiles has to squint into it for a second before he sees - 

Talons.

Fur.

Red, red eyes.

He staggers back against the kitchen counter.

The blade falls from his hand and clatters onto the floor.

The - _creature_ \- turns to look at him, lips curled in a snarl, fangs gleaming -

And changes into a man, raising his hands, as if to signal he means no harm.

The talons disappear from those hands, just as the fur disappears from that face.

It's -

Stiles _recognizes_ that face.

"You're Derek Hale," he says, numbly, his heart thudding in his chest.

The now-human eyes widen. "How do you know my name?" the man demands, fangs lengthening again.

Stiles laughs. Weakly. He passes a palm over his forehead, checking if he's feverish, if he's finally lost it.

"Tell me," the impostor growls - and it _must_ be an impostor, must be the murderer, acting like one of Stiles's characters.

Except that only Stiles knows exactly what Derek's like in his own imagination. Only Stiles knows about the stubble, about the - the fucking blood-stained tank top, the jeans with threads dangling from poorly patched-up holes - holes caused by claws. Only Stiles knows the arch of that nose, the texture of that dark hair, the bulk of those shoulders, the precise thickness of those eyebrows.

Problem solved.

"I'm mad," Stiles announces, a new, icy calm taking hold of him. "I've gone mad. Okay. That's okay. I just have to call the hospi - "

"Don't." There's a fist wrapped unshakably around Stiles's wrist before he can even reach for the cordless phone. The man - the _werewolf_ \- is pressing Stiles into the counter, surrounding him with the scent of old blood and fresh sweat and a peculiar, heavy, bestial musk.

"But you're not here," Stiles says, and it's like he's somewhere else, disembodied, watching himself talk to a fictional character. "You just look like you are." Another laugh bubbles up from inside him, jagged and strained. "You don't understand. I _made_ you. I know... I know everything about you. Everything. I know about Kate, about Paige, about - "

Derek stiffens, an expression of - terror? Uncertainty? - twisting his features. "How," he rasps, bending forward and inhaling, as if smelling Stiles. "You're not lying," he says, slowly. "You know me."

"Derek Hale. Tragic. Beautiful. Bisexual. Lycanthropic. Product of my sad, oversexed brain. Recurring character in my _Alpha_ series, going from secretive anti-villain to sympathetic anti-hero in five consecutive novels, with a storyline that I can't bring myself to resolve satisfactorily because I can't let him _go_. Isn't that pathetic? Having a crush on a guy I invented?"

Derek's staring at him like - oh, like he's mad. Which he is. He just _said_ he is.

"You should let me call the hospital. They'll pump me full of sedatives and carry me away, and then you can... cease existing. Manifesting in the corporeal realm. Whatever it is you're doing."

"What I'm _doing_ is hiding in your house because it's the closest to the forest. Hunters are after me."

"The French family? The Argents?"

"Yes," Derek says, fear fading to be replaced by puzzlement. "Are you a psychic? Or an... an emissary? Like Deaton?"

"Nope. Just a mediocre writer. And the Argents are absolutely unremarkable," Stiles adds. "In _this_ world, anyway. Not hunters, not warriors. I just borrowed the name because it had such potential. Allison was flattered by it - "

"Stop. Just... stop. You're not making any sense."

" _You're_ not making any sense. You're not even _real_."

"Don't I feel real to you?" Derek loosens his grasp on Stiles's wrist. Which is... it's visibly bruised. "Do illusions leave bruises?"

"I could've left those on myself," Stiles insists, stubbornly.

"Maybe I should mark you where you can't mark yourself."

"Um." Stiles... resists commenting on the pornographic potential of that sentence. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that. And? Deaton is just a plain ol' vanilla vet. Sorry to disappoint."

"You're saying that you're a novelist." Derek's mouth crooks in a tired, mildly annoyed moue. "And I'm a character in your books."

"My favorite. Yep. Apologies for putting you through hell on a regular basis. What can I say? We hurt the ones we love."

"Since you aren't lying," Derek says, "I can only assume that you're a psychic driven mad by your visions."

"Total agreement on the mad front. If you hadn't heard me when I _admitted it_. Not-so-total agreement on the psychic front. Listen, Derek, it's nice how you're all... touchable and distracting, but if you could kindly dematerialize, I'd like to retreat to my bed and be amused by my mental instability in the morning, when you would have vanished into comfortable nothingness and left me to masturbate peacefully in the shower. To memories of your pecs."

"I can't go until the sun has risen and the Argents have given up."

"And how will you know they've given up?"

"Instinct."

"Trust the instinct. Yeah, I came up with that. Like it?"

"Be. Quiet," Derek grits out, and cups the back of Stiles's neck. His claws have emerged the tiniest bit, a warning pressure against Stiles's carotid artery, but Stiles can't bring himself to be scared of them, because they're completely unreal.

He meets Derek's gaze with equanimity, and Derek seems flustered by that, because he falters before shaking Stiles like a rag-doll.

"And don't move. I'm staying right here, and I won't let you alert anyone about my presence."

"Speaking of alerting people, there's a pair of FBI agents dropping by tomorrow, so if you _are_ a solid entity and not a wisp of particularly handsome smoke, you'll find a place to hide before they catch you." Stiles grins, relaxed, liberated from his worries by sheer... fun? Has he shifted gears from being traumatized by his insanity to enjoying it?

Well, why not? Derek _is_ incredibly attractive. If Stiles has to have hallucinations, at least they're quality stuff.

And later, he can show Derek his novels, just to see that finely sculpted jaw sag open in shock.

 

* * *

  **tbc?**  


Should I continue this? Or is it too weird?

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
